This is what she saw: Mrs. Yorke was lying in bed, propped up by pillows. Her face was turned away from the door, consequently she had not seen Violet’s sudden appearance in her room. At the bedside stood old Betty. Mrs. Yorke’s back was turned to her, and she was speaking in querulous tones.
“I don’t know what detains Miss Glyndon,” she was saying. “I sent her down-stairs for a fresh bottle of the sleeping-draught, which was in the store-room, and also to bring a book from the library to read to me as usual. It must have been a full hour ago, but she has not returned. I shall discharge her to-morrow. I can not trust her. She is not fit to be in my employ. Nobody is prompt and punctual and reliable like you, Betty.”
“No, ma’am; nobody could be more so, I am sure. But I work from the heart, ma’am,” returned the old hypocrite, blandly; and Violet’s heart swelled with indignation as she listened to the false words from the wicked old woman.
“Will you have the sleeping-draught now, ma’am?” added old Betty, sweetly.
“Yes; I must sleep. You will find the old bottle on the table yonder. There is still enough left for one more dose. Give it to me, Betty, and let me sleep.”
“I will.”
There was something awful in the cruel voice. Violet felt the blood run cold in her veins. She stood quite still, her eyes riveted upon the old woman’s movements.
Betty drew a small vial from her pocket, and removing the cork, dropped a portion of its contents into a wine-glass; then she returned the cork to the vial and slipped it back into her pocket, after which she stooped over the invalid, with pale face and stern, compressed lips.
“Here,” she said in a trembling tone; “here is your sleeping-potion, ma’am. You will soon sleep well!”
She lifted Mrs. Yorke’s head upon her arm and held the glass to her lips. The sight broke the spell which seemed to enchain Violet’s faculties, and with a wild shriek which resounded through the house she sprung forward, and with one swift blow dashed the wine-glass from Betty’s hand.